Mascara Dreams

Sanjeet stood on her new balcony, cigarette between her fingers, staring down at the large patch of grass and the laughing kids below. The air smelled of exhaust fumes and spicy food. A burnt-out motorbike lay on the path that ran alongside the grass.

On the fourth floor her new council flat provided plenty of room for her piano, plenty of room for her possessions. Her parents would certainly approve of its location, a mere 30-minute walk from the Bank of England.

She imagined the bank as a grand fat old lady who commanded a thriving respect from millions, an enormous, dimpled monster, folds of slack flesh laying flaccidly over the land from east to west, north to south, warming and soothing and admonishing and scolding her acolytes. And in the centre of an adoring mob, bobbing and swaying, were her parents offering cultured ululations at their daughter’s great luck, at being so close to this temple of power, money, position.

But if they knew the reality they’d be horrified. Not that she cared. She flicked the butt over the railing, watching the spark fall to the ground. Her nerves tightened as she thought of her appointment, her new agency job.

She turned inside and lit another cigarette. Smoke coiled up in wispy spirals, like the memories she’d fought years to forget; her father’s large leathery hand bearing down on her, that haunted her all her life, the endless harsh words, the coldness.

The times he violently rubbed her face into the pee stained sheets when she’d wet the bed. The time she ran to her brother’s bedroom when he was ill, clutching a jug of sunshine she’d captured to make him feel better, and then knocked to the floor by that hand for crumpling the rug as she ran. The time when it lashed out and gave her a black eye for accidentally kicking over the teapot. All seared into her psyche.

If she had to bend down when outside, she’s always look behind her, expecting to be clattered over the head by that hand. She sat, pressing her stomach. “Camomile tea,” she whispered, “and Xanax to calm the nerves.”

As she said it, her phone began to ring, startling her for a second. The phone kept ringing. “Where is it?” she muttered, tearing through a pile of clothes on the sofa.

“Damn, damn, damn…” She found it beneath a jumper and pressed accept just as it was about to ring off.

“Sarah,” she breathed, a tone of relief in her voice.

“Just checking in, sweetheart,” said Sarah, her tone soft and businesslike all at once. “Big day. How are the nerves?”

Sanjeet laughed nervously. “My stomach’s full of butterflies.”

“That’s normal,” Sarah said smoothly. “You’re embarking on something new. I felt the same when I started. But I promise, once you get over the first hurdle you’ll be on your feet.”

“Promise?” Sanjeet asked. She hated how weak her voice sounded. “Because right now, it doesn’t feel like that.”

“Of course I promise. You’re bright, you’re beautiful, you know how to handle people. Just remember, be polite, be professional, and do what’s asked and you’ll be fine.”

Sanjeet’s throat tightened. “Can I call you tonight? After?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.” There was a pause that was a little too long. “And don’t worry. I checked everything out. It’s all perfectly safe.”

Safe? Did she need to feel safe?

“Thank you, Sarah,” she said quietly. “You’re a good friend.”

Sarah’s voice brightened. “This is going to be great for you, Sanjeet. A fresh start.”

Sanjeet wasn’t thinking of it as a fresh start. It was a means to make enough money to return to Nice where she’d spent her university days. She pictured the sea, blue and glittering, the soothing heat on her skin. The mountains in the background. Italy, 30 minutes away. It was her dream. She was determined to escape her past, to build a new life.

Tossing the phone onto the sofa she stared at the balcony windows. It was time to get ready. She had to leave in one hour. Turning to face the full-length mirror she smoothed her dress, flicked her hair, lightly rouged her cheeks, brushed mascara onto her lashes and carefully added blue eye shadow. “Mascara makes all the difference,” she said as she took a final look in the mirror.

The client’s office was in London’s Mayfair, fifty-three South Street, behind Bond Street tube station. From Chancery Lane she estimated it would take twenty-five minutes. Descending into Chancery Lane underground, she darted through the butcher tiled concourse, clutched the side of the escalator and fixed her gaze on the treads. As she reached the bottom a train thundered onto the platform forcing her to run to catch it. She bounded through the doors and threw herself into a seat.

The fluorescent lights were harsh. Unforgiving. Opposite her, a man and woman were chatting, their words muted by the thundering rumble of the train. For a moment, she thought she heard them clearly. Then the sounds stretched, slow, warped, like speech underwater. Like sharp pins, ice-cold spots of sweat appeared on her forehead. The kaleidoscope of butterflies in her stomach fluttered into a whirl of frantic panic.

Time slowed down until the temporal parameters marking the passage of a minute melted away and these moments were all that had ever been and all that ever would be. Frozen she felt like her whole life had been lived fleeing across subterranean concourses, thundering around dark and dirty tunnels beneath harshly lit lights in which every tiny physical imperfection was subject to damning criticism.

The passengers opposite stared at her. They saw a beautiful little zombie, deep brown eyes, olive skin, finely chiselled features, sharp eyebrows and a tight little mouth, rigidly still, staring ahead with disquieting intensity. She couldn’t move. “Not again. Please not again.”

The train jerked and shuddered as it pulled into a station. A passenger brushed past and stubbed her foot by accident. She let out a muted cry and noticed her hands were shaking. She turned her head sharply, saw the sign: Bond Street. As she stepped off the carriage she thought she heard someone speaking French. When she walked out onto Oxford Street, the deadening grey noise washed over her. The monotonous monochrome sky, the jarring sound of traffic, the ubiquitous buzz of pedestrians; it all felt reassuringly normal. Crushed drink cans, discarded newspapers fluttering along the pavements, a beggar’s muttering, a self-important businessman shouting into his phone.

The walk to South Street steadied her. The street grew quieter, cleaner. Shop fronts turned from clothing that could be bought in any town, to haute couture fashion and galleries. By the time she reached number fifty-three, the air itself smelled of money, wealth, genteel harbours for the rich. The house stood back from the road behind ornate black railings, its brickwork the colour of sand, its clean windows shining. A brass plate by the door read: Far East Oil. For a moment she stood across the street, unsure whether to move. It didn’t look like an office. It looked like the home of a billionaire. Just a job, she told herself. Just an appointment. She was certain she could ride it out. “I know I’m going to hate it but it’s not forever. I can get through it… Six months, even four or five, and I’ll have enough for Nice.”

The cloying scent of excessive wealth, leather, expensive oil paintings, seeped even through the solid oak door. It reminded her of her parents’ house: the opulence boasting of success, the hush, the feeling of being afraid to touch anything. She steadied her hands and pressed the doorbell. The door opened. A woman in a sharply clean black-and-white uniform, clearly the maid, stood there, dark hair pinned back, large round eyes that looked so deep into Sanjeet she felt like she’d been nailed to the floor.

Before speaking the maid hesitated a little, taking a slight step back, “Miss Anand?” “Yes,” Sanjeet said. Her voice sounded too quiet. “Mr Gastrell is expecting you,” the maid replied wistfully in a soft Irish lilt. The hallway was immaculate: marble tiles, ornate gilt-edged mirrors, a valuable Chinese vase on an antique French table. The maid shut the door and led her into a side room. Sanjeet’s heart beat loudly.

Then a man’s jarring voice boomed: “My God, Sanjeet… it’s been such a long time!” He strode through a doorway, large and confident, smiling widely. “You must have been sweet sixteen when I last saw you. I recognised your photo right away. You’ve grown into quite the woman. How's the old man?” Sanjeet tried to reply. Her cheeks twitched nervously, her mouth wouldn’t cooperate as a fleeting image of a large leathery hand swept across her mind.

Leaning close to her she flinched at the feeling of Gastrell’s hardness, a mirror of her of father, as he whispered, “Don’t be shy,” before gesturing towards an adjoining room, “You can put your things in there. There’s wine if you like. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

The maid, Ciara, he’d called her, hesitated at the door. Her gaze flicked to Sanjeet, urgent and intense. She shook her head as if saying ‘No’, mouthing, “Go… go.” Ciara had seen something; smoky evanescent wraiths rising out of the slender gaps between the floorboards, curling around Sanjeet’s legs and then evaporating. She knew what they foretold.

“Thank you, Ciara,” Gastrell said sharply. “You can go now.”

Ciara stepped through the door and closing it behind her, leant back and looked up towards the ceiling. She let out a deep sigh, “She won’t last long… the poor child’s heart is too heavy and too soft.”

Two weeks later, the light in Sanjeet’s flat was different. Yellowy. In that time, she had visited several clients, Richards, Matthews, Mohammeds, each with lustful smiles and hard grabbing hands, each leaving her emptier, worthless, than the last. The work paid well, but money felt like nothing now. Defeat seemed to rise from every cell in her body.

When she returned home, she'd sit on the sofa or stand on the balcony, smoking, staring blankly. She’d listen to the children’s laughter below, the endless drone of traffic. Her reflection in the mirror had changed, “My eyes are older, look at the deep dark bags. My skin is waxy. Everything about me is sagging.” She hadn’t reckoned with the cold reality of the course she had chosen.

One evening, she took red wine from the kitchen and placed it beside a bottle of dihydrocodeine painkillers on the coffee table. The city outside was quieter, the sound of the traffic muted. She thought of Nice: the sunlit water, the scent of salt, the beaches, and relaxed smiles. She thought of that cruel leathery hand that had shaped her childhood, the terror it inflicted.

When Sarah finally came, impatient after too many unanswered calls, she found the door unlocked. The air thick and sickly sweet. Sanjeet lay on the sofa, beneath a blanket, her body curled as if asleep. Sarah stood for a long moment hand over mouth and nose. Then she noticed the half-empty bottle of wine, the empty pill bottle, the traces of mascara smudged into a cream-coloured cushion. The balcony door was open; the floor littered with cigarette ends... the wails of weeping children drifting upwards.